


Nothing Gold Can Stay

by OneWingedSeraph



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Cause Guardians can be resurrected, Character Death, F/M, Fireteam (Destiny), Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Ghosts (Destiny), Random & Short, Some Humor, Some Plot, Threats of Violence, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, eventually, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28518387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneWingedSeraph/pseuds/OneWingedSeraph
Summary: Short stories that revolve around my Fireteam (back when I consistently played with friends, that is). Really brief and all over the place: these pieces don't follow any particular order, but you'll find mentions of the main storyline up until 'Beyond Light'.Art by my actual Martyr in later chapter. :)
Relationships: Original Character(s) - Relationship
Kudos: 1





	1. Herecy

**Author's Note:**

> “Nature’s first green is gold,  
> Her hardest hue to hold.  
> Her early leaf’s a flower;  
> But only so an hour.  
> Then leaf subsides to leaf.  
> So Eden sank to grief,  
> So dawn goes down to day.  
> Nothing gold can stay.”
> 
> —Robert Frost 

Piotr turned the knife over between his fingers, cursing softly as the hooked blade slipped between his forefinger and thumb and fell to the floor, clanging several times as it connected with whatever he had thrown beneath his bed. He glanced toward his desk, lips pursed as he watched Cassandra sleep or wait in stasis—whatever Ghosts did—and when a full ten seconds had passed without her fins rising and her eye brightening as she cracked some joke at his expense, he let the air leak from his lungs. Summoning the icy cold shadows of the Void, he drew the blade out from under his bed and back to his hand, wreathed in purple flames.

“Damn Hunter makes it look so easy,” he mumbled and began the exercise again.

It was one of a few new things he had begun to teach himself since . . . well, since he had stopped leaving the Tower every few days to go on missions and generally clean up after his Fireteam. He found that it was better to keep his hands, and his mind, occupied. Focused, and not wandering back to the moment he had heard only silence over the comms, the very air around him crackling with static and the ebbing energy waves of the pulse that had destroyed his queen’s Dreadnought. Both Martyr and Seraph had dragged his ass through the rest of that mission, though he had come clear of the fog the moment they stepped into Oryx’s chamber. He had yet to thank his team for allowing him the final blow to the king, the self-satisfied vengeance cooling swiftly when he realized it would not bring his beloved Mara Sov back.

He scowled and stood, setting the blade atop one of the shelves amidst the eclectic collection of Fallen, Taken, and Vex that lined nearly every flat surface within his room. Moving toward the one window, he brushed aside the curtain and blinked as the afternoon sunlight stuck his eyes. The Tower was quiet; they still remembered and worked to rebuild what damage the Red Legion had done.

“You have messages,” Cassandra said from his desk. He did not have to look to know that she was drifting over her station, pretending not to monitor him. “Shall I play them?”

“Go ahead.” His gaze wandered over the streets as various messages played through his small living quarters, but he heard none of them. As the ping of an incoming call echoed in his ears, he sighed and turned, giving his Ghost a look.

Her outer rim spun. “Oh no. If you want to tell your Vanguard that you’re refusing messages, be my guest. I won’t be the one dealing with your corpse afterward. Oh wait—I will.”

Drawing in another slow breath, he transmatted one of his cleaner shirts over his bare chest and lifted both hands to work through the tangles of his fiery copper hair. “Go ahead,” he said dryly, and stepped closer to hide the view of his room. “Ikora,” he greeted with a bit more added emotion.

“Guardian.” Her dark eyes narrowed, but he did not let his expression shift. She was waiting for that, he knew that well enough. “I heard from Squall that you did not show up for training with the younger Guardians today.”

He bit back a curse by quickly clearing his throat. “My apologies. I must have had my days mixed up.” Ignoring Cassandra’s knowing hmph, he cracked a sheepish smile at his Vanguard. “Did Squall manage without me?”

“She did, but she should not have to, as you well know. I have given you the time you requested, Piotr, and I gave more when your teammate came to me and kindly asked for it. But it has been weeks now and you have duties to fulfill.” She paused to take a breath, her stance relaxing as she continued to hold his gaze. For a moment, her form wavered and he could hear the faint sound of another person speaking to her, but when she returned, she was alone. “Squall found someone to replace you this morning, but I expect you to come tomorrow, and every day after. Grief will only guide you for so long.”

It was easier to hide his response over the comm, he simply clenched his hands into fists and ignored the sharp prick of his nails against his palms. “Thank you for your patience, Ikora. I will be at the lessons tomorrow.”

“Excellent.” Her expression softened marginally. “And Squall says you owe her a favor.”

Allowing himself to wince, he congratulated himself when Ikora gave him a swift goodbye and asked no more questions. But his relief quickly faded as Cassandra gave a faint whir and a video appeared between them.

Martyr and Seraph were on—he squinted—Mars, and they were currently dashing back and forth on a series of staircases, punching Cabal and generally looking like a pair of fools. He smiled and motioned for Cassandra to turn up the volume. “ _LUCY!_ ” one of the Ghosts wailed, trailing along after a Hunter dressed in copper-hued armor and currently wielding a shotgun. “Please, please, please wait for me to get your shield back up before you—” the rest of his words faded into a static-filled warble as he transmatted away while she slid beneath a Legionnaire's sword.

The sharp _ra-ta-ta-ta_ of an auto rifle covered whatever response she gave, but Piotr could see from the sudden shift of the camera that Martyr had laid down cover fire as Seraph ducked behind a wall and summed an arc grenade. It took only a moment for the two to take control of what remained of the battlefield, and as Martyr turned to give his Ghost (who had recorded the whole fight), a thumb’s up, Seraph mimed swinging a baseball bat, lifting one hand to shield her gaze as the imaginary ball left the field.

“Hey, Herecy!” she shouted, skipping to Martyr’s side as the Exo held out his hand to allow his Ghost to hover above. “Lot of crazy shit out here— _Rasputin_ shit. You’d love it.” Her gaze suddenly shifted. “Ooh, loot!”

Martyr chuckled. “We’ll send you the coordinates the next time we come out this way. She’s right; you’d love it.”

The connection cut short and he stared at the blank wall across from him, finding that a hint of a smile still played about his lips. Cassandra gave a little hum and floated closer, nudging the line of his jaw even as he lifted his hand and let her rest in his palm. “Sounds fun,” she mused, short chirps escaping her as the coordinates came in. “Wouldn’t hurt to at least visit.”

“No,” he murmured, looking around his dimly lit room again. “No, it wouldn’t hurt.”


	2. Martyr

Martyr-07 had temporarily lost his mind.  
  
It was not that odd of occurrence, as bad as it sounded, and over the years, he had managed to find it, time and time and time again. Cove was a god-send on the worst days, replaying audio files and videos, relaying memories back to him until his servos kicked back in with a stuttering whine and the words sounded like they actually had happened to him and not some stranger with his name. On the good days, he could pretend to feel normal; pop the heat sink, load a new clip, kill the enemy. Rinse and repeat until there was nothing left on the field. And the memories would flutter back on their own, pieces falling into place here and there until they were not just teammates, they were his family.  
  
Martyr-07, Exo Titan; preferred weapons: auto rifles and pulse rifles, preferred subclass: Sentinel. He was an older Guardian, had stood with the Vanguards when Eris warned them of Crota’s impending resurrection, and had stood with them through all the troubles since. Frequently trained with younger Guardians and took them on low-risk missions on Titan Base. Once had a Fireteam of seven, but as the years progressed and darkness spread, they had now come down to three.  
  
Piotr, an Awoken who had taken the handle of Herecy, had joined his Fireteam during the House of Wolves’ attempted conquest, and they had been side by side ever since. The Warlock was a loose cannon, dependable until he was not, slinging down Void damage like some deranged fallen angel. He loved his queen, scotch, and racing, in that order. And since he had lost his queen, he had fallen in deep (sometimes too deep), with the rest. But he was still dependable, reluctant as he was to re-enter the field.  
  
Seraph was . . . well she was _Lucy_. Neither he nor Piotr could quite remember when she had made herself part of their Fireteam, they only knew that she was a part of it now, and that was really all that mattered. If Piotr was a loose cannon, she was their foundation. Oh, she certainly knew how to have fun—as a Hunter, she would claim she was the only one in their group who did—but when things got bad in the field, she got shit done. Whether it was giving their Ghosts time to resurrect their forms on the field, or drawing fire even as she danced across the darkest parts of the universe, trailing arcs of electricity wherever she went, Lucy got that shit _done_.  
  
His neck plates gave a shudder, parting to release the pressure that had been building within him as his sub-systems overheated in his desperation to just remember.  
  
 _“Come now, brother.” Piotr leapt over his shoulder, cold Void energy molding around his ridiculous coat as he began sending beam after beam of pure energy into a wave of Acolytes. “Loser pays for drinks, and Dane is refusing your tab.”  
_  
Dane’s tab had been paid more than twice over, and Martyr tightened his grip on the piping that kept him from falling thousands of feet to the base of the Tower. He remembered that. And still, Piotr kept insisting on bets.  
  
 _A too small hand rested over the back of his metal fingers, and with more strength than he estimated she could have, she pulled him to his feet. “Hey there, Tin-man,” she said with a smile. “Bet you didn’t think I’d find you all the way out here.”_  
  
“Tin-man,” he repeated, voice-box crackling as that subroutine finally returned. “She told me why she called me that, didn’t she, Cove? She told me . . . a story about a road of green and a city made of glass. No, no that’s not it.” His Ghost let out a series of blips, the first few notes of a song that Martyr was sure he had heard before. “A city of - no, that was green. And the road was . . . it was . . . yellow.”

Memories shuttered back into place, names and faces and information all filed away in their proper places. More plates popped open along his sides and his wrists, releasing a hiss of steam and pressure as some of his systems simply rebooted, too hot to continue to do what he ordered them to do. And still, he pushed.

_Remember. Remember. Remember._

Cove hovered around his shoulder, repeating the notes, the sounds echoing in his mind until they finally shook something loose.

_“He spent that whole journey hoping to ask for a heart.” Lucy kicked one foot lazily, her leg dangling over the edge of the tower, her head cradled in Piotr’s lap as both their Ghosts hummed happily against her side. She shifted her weight, nudging Martyr with her boot, the wind catching her dark curls as she gave him a small grin. “And guess what he found?”_

_“That the so-called Wizard was a deluded hack?” Piotr asked._

_His breath left in a soft grunt as Lucy prodded his ribs. “No, you absolute pessimist. He realized that he had a heart all along.”_

“That’s enough for now,” his Ghost murmured, nudging his chest plate before he began running diagnostics on what systems remained running. “You’re back to seventy-three percent. You did good.”

Martyr-08 straightened slowly, steam hissing from the vents along his shoulders and calves as he forced himself to stand. And as he opened his eyes, looking down at his hands, hands he could remember doing so much, he nodded, and turned from the edge of the Tower. He wanted to find his Fireteam. He wanted to be with his family.


	3. Seraph

Lucy walked the streets of the Tower without any real true sense of purpose. She wandered the repaired alleys and browsed the stalls, saying nothing for the lack of even the most basic items. Spending glimmer by the handful, she soon took the familiar path toward the main square, dodging children at play and slowly devouring one of the few peaches she had scavenged from the EDZ. The rest were in a small basket set aside in her room, saved especially for Piotr and Martyr. Juice slid down her chin, and she was quick to swipe it away before she took the steps down to the underbelly of the Tower proper.

Ikora took one of the proffered peaches with a small smile, inclining her head as Lucy rattled out what news she had collected. She returned to her duties the moment the Hunter had walked away, but Lucy caught a glimpse of the Warlock bringing the peach to her nose and taking a slow inhale, the air around the older Guardian relaxing. With a grin, Lucy gave another of the fruits to Hawthorne, swapping gossip and offering seeds and bits of meat to Louise as she adjusted to the unfamiliar weight of the falcon on her shoulder.

“Heard you took out one of the rising Kells with nothing more than a side-arm.” Dark eyes bright with humor, Hawthorne gave her head a shake. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen some of the crazy stunts you and your friends pulled after ending up on Earth with us normal folk.”

Waving away the words, Lucy lifted a cautious hand, stroking her forefinger over the soft feathers of Louise’s breast, her cheeks aching from the wideness of her smile. “He was barely an issue. Now, if I could just find a way to carry more ammo, I wouldn’t have to worry about running out mid-fight.”

“Maybe miss less?”

“Har har.” She rolled her eyes, still smiling, and eased the large bird onto his roost, mindful of his talons. “Keep up that kind of sass, and you’ll start to sound like Herecy.”  
Hawthorne snorted. “As if. I’d have to be a bit more stuck on myself and paint my skin blue. Think I could pull that off?”

“So long as you can manage to wax eloquent about how much the Awoken are ‘the best’ at like everything.” Snickering softly, Lucy moved toward the steps. “Gotta go check in with the others.”

“Uh-huh.” The clan master smiled knowingly. “Tell your boyfriend I said hi.”

Cheeks darkening, Lucy turned, taking the steps two at a time. “We both know you don’t mean it!” she called over her shoulder, provoking another bout of laughter from Hawthorne.

She offered both Banshee-44 and Shaxx one of the remaining peaches, but both gently refused; the Exo’s eyes went a more brilliant blue as she offered him rare schematics she had found on one of her recent ventures, and Shaxx grumbled good-naturedly when she refused to join his line-up for the Crucible later that week. “I’ll get you in there one day, Guardian,” he said boisterously.

“It’ll be a cold day on Mercury when that happens,” she answered as she took clipped steps backward toward the hangars. Her pale gaze flickered to where Zavala overlooked the city below, and with a quick swallow, she called his name. “Eyes up, Vanguard!” she shouted, and lobbed a peach at him.

He caught it easily and gave the fruit a curious glance before he looked up and met her gaze. A moment passed before he nodded and lifted the gift in silent gratitude. Lucy did not stick around much longer after that.

“Are you actually going to tell him this time?” her Ghost whispered as they ducked beneath the overhang.

“Hush, Jack.” She cast a frown at him, but the expression was quick to soften. “Wish me luck, hmm?”

Her pulse quickened as she made her way into the hangars, the air filled with the familiar scent of motor oil and the random hiss of sparks as repairs were made to the ships. She hesitated at the second to last landing, glancing to where a handful of other Hunters were standing in a half-circle as Cayde-6 retold one of his favorite stories. It was one of his most told, and thus, the most exaggerated, and she shook her head ruefully as the familiar numbers swelled out of proportion, causing a few of the Hunters to gasp appreciatively.

“Hey there, Seraph!” Her gaze shot to the opposite side of the hangar where Amanda gave her a wave and a warm grin. Before the pilot could say anything else, Lucy darted forward, hoping that no one else had noticed. But even as she crossed the metal mesh of the floor, she could hear a low whistle.

Heat bloomed along her cheeks, but she grinned even as she tossed the second-to-last peach to Amanda before she changed her course. Weaving between the younger Guardians, she moved to join Cayde, her grin growing as he stopped his story and set his arm around her shoulders, drawing her against his side.

“All right,” he drawled, looking at the Hunters even as he gave her curls a gentle ruffle before he accepted the last piece of fruit. “Now if you all thought that last story—thanks, kid—was unbelievable, just you wait until I tell you what this crazy gal here did on Venus just last month.”


	4. Tipsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Literally just glimpses into the team's downtime between missions. Alcohol is normally involved.

"I don't want your affection, Hunter."

"Oh, that's cute," Lucy cooed, sidling away and looping her arms around Martyr's neck while she held Piotr's gaze. "Hey, did you know the Awoken blush blue, Mar? He looks just like a blueberry."

Both Cassandra and Jack hovered nearby, cackling softly as they pulled up images. "She's right," Cove chimed.

With a growing scowl, the Warlock watched as Lucy dropped a kiss on their Titan's cheek and slipped away to get more drinks. The Ghosts were still laughing, sharing their findings and spinning their shells. But Martyr watched as Piotr reached up to rub at his cheek, and the Exo kept the memory to himself with a smile.

-

"Maaaartyr." Her voice rose higher at the end, her feet giving slow kicks at the air as he hefted her over his shoulder, his pauldrons already transmatted away so that she would not have bruises in the morning. "Maaaaartyr, you know what I can't stand?"

He smiled, adjusting her weight until she rested comfortably over his shoulder. "What's that Lucy?"

Her fingers drummed over his back, her body gradually relaxing as he took her down the street to her apartment. "That I can't get you this drunk and carry you down the street. Wouldn't that be hilarious?" She giggled. "Petey thinks I couldn't but I bet you I coooould."

"She is so drunk," Cove said quietly.

-

"Why do you insist on drinking this much?" Piotr grumbled, adjusting his grip on her side as her weight shifted dangerously away from him. "You know we have a trip scheduled for Nessus tomorrow and—"  
  
"Oh, you're such a spoilsport," she interrupted with only the slightest hint of slurring. "We both know I'll be up and ready to go before you've finished slicking back your hair in the morning." Warm and too heavy, she let her head rest on his shoulder. "You don't like it, tell Jack to stop making my metabolism burn through all that whiskey."  
  
The mentioned Ghost gave a sniff, outer shell contracting. "I will not. You're supposed to be in top condition at all times and—”

"Ugh the two of you are such a paaaaaain. Where's the tin-man when I need him?"  
  



	5. Fault

"Piotr," Lucy called out in a rather conversational tone from where she was currently taking cover behind a broken pillar as Vex and Cabal rained down fire on them all.

He gave a grunt in response as he switched weapons.

"Have you ever considered, oh, I don't know—" she dodged beneath a Legionnaire's blade before she jammed a knife between his chest plates, "—reloading your fucking weapon?"

The Warlock grunted again, emptying his clip and switching straight to his primary even as he lobbed a grenade at the remaining Harpies. "You worry too much, Seraph. We've got this. Tell her Martyr."

Their Titan hastily erected a shield as a Valus dropped from the higher floor, flooding the area with heat-seeking missiles. "Well, I mean, it would make things easier, and—"

"Nah, nah, nah," he said in reply, jumping from some of the rubble and strafing mid-air as he aimed his grenade launcher at the lead Cabal. "Just watch. I got this."

The grenade streaked over the Valus' pauldron by at least five feet, splattering Void damage across the shattering form of their shield.

"What the ever-loving fuck?" Lucy shrieked, summoning her arc staff and rushing to cover both her teammates as Martyr's shield sputtered. Electricity snapped over her head before her voice came over the comm again: "How could you _miss_? He was _ten_ _fucking_ _feet_ away from you!"


	6. Satisfaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place within the beginning of Forsaken - right after our favorite Hunter Vanguard dies (is this even a spoiler after all this time?).

They found her sitting near the Spider, her legs neatly tucked beneath her, one elbow resting on the side of his makeshift throne, her helmet in one of his hands. Both his guards were gone. It was the first time Martyr could ever remember them not standing to either side of the Eliksni. Gunfire echoed outside the twisting tunnel that led to the Spider's lair, and though he knew it was likely that they could hear his heavy footsteps, neither looked to where he and Herecy hesitated in the archway.

"Why do you want them?" she asked softly, the remains of a ghost in her hand. "It's not as though they can do anything for you."

"True." His cyan gaze remained on the Hunter, his large head cocked as she dragged one gloved finger over the scratched metallic shell. He gave a series of clicks, his chest swelling with a breath before he leaned nearer. "Call it curiosity."

Lucy hummed, turning one of the nodes and lifting the ghost higher as the faint chime of data came from its cold depths. "You know the human idiom, I'm sure."

"Ah." The Spider laughed, eyes narrowed even as he lifted another hand and reached for her. "Curiosity killed the cat, yes?"

Martyr caught Herecy by the wrist as his friend moved to step forward. His fingers tightened around the Warlock's arm, his gaze darting to the right and finding the Spider's hidden guards. He shook his head and turned his attention back to their friend.

"Curiosity killed the cat," she repeated, unflinching as one of his claws slipped beneath her curls. The ghost in her hands went cold again, empty and silent. "But satisfaction brought it back."

Again, the Fallen laughed, the sound trailing away in a faint hiss as his touch discovered where Jack was hiding beneath the weight of Lucy's hair. There was a faint click and an angry chirp before the glowing shell spun and disappeared. "Satisfaction. Is that what keeps bringing you back to me, little Guardian?"

The corner of her mouth curled in the shadow of a smile before she tilted her head back, uncaring of his hand so near to her throat, and lifted her gaze to his. "Curiosity and satisfaction both. That, and the pay is good."

"But what do you really get out of it, hmm?" He shifted again, his height towering over her for a moment, his strength completely obvious. Her helmet was set on his knee as he continued to watch her. "What does the illustrious Seraph, one of the Guardians who saved the worlds, care for an old spider's glimmer?"

"All glimmer spends, even yours." She set the dead ghost within his palm, reaching for another and—revealing to both Martyr and Herecy—a small pile of the lightless orbs. Her gaze fell to this new ghost, scored by claws all too eerily similar to the ones still combing through her hair, and she sighed. "They have stories. Such wonderful, sad, uplifting, heart-breaking stories. And I want to know them." Her voice softened. "Someone should remember them and their Guardians."

A ragged sound filled the room, a growl heavy with further curiosity. "And what then? You can't bring any of them back." He pulled his hand from her curls and plucked the ghost from her fingers. "You drown yourself in these stories, these sorrows. Is there nothing else that inspires you?"

Lucy took up another ghost, holding the lump of metal close to her chest. Ice blue light briefly lit up her eyes, the sharp taste of ozone filling the room. And when she smiled again, it was the smile that always managed to break Martyr’s heart a little more. "There's revenge."


	7. Error

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm putting a warning on this chapter only, because while both these characters are consenting adults, there are definitely extenuating circumstances and alcohol that is blurring the lines between honest communication and good choices.

Lucy was a warm weight against his side, her breaths coming in occasional soft hums, her fingers idly drumming the empty bottle between them. He shifted again, frustrated when her heat and her weight followed, but he could hear the hitch in her breathing, and he bit back the sharp words that had immediately risen to his tongue. And when her hand fell from the bottle to land limp atop his leg, he still did not say anything.

“Thank you for staying,” she said suddenly, her voice almost too soft to hear. “Mar won’t be back ‘til tomorrow. I’m sure you’d rather be doing anything but this, and I—”

“Stop rambling.” He drew in a deep breath and let his head fall back as she sniffed. “Sorry.”

She shook her head before she tucked her face against his shoulder. “You don’t have to apologize.” Her voice wavered. “I know you don’t really like doing things like this.”

“I don’t mind,” he sighed, allowing her to relax more comfortably against him, “helping. Not when it’s you, Lu.”

A moment passed before she hummed softly, the sound vibrating down the length of his arm and into his chest. “Still, thank you.” Her hand was still heavy atop his knee, but between the space of one breath and the next, her fingers were smoothing over his thigh.

Piotr tilted his head, sending a sharp glance at her hand before he looked at the top of her head. “Lucy?”

“Hmm?” She sounded half-asleep and her hand had gone still the moment he moved. “Yeah, Pete?”

He scoffed. “Don’t call me that.” Lifting his own cup, he drained the last of the whiskey she had offered some twenty minutes ago. His next words came softer. “I hate it when you call me that.”

Another hum echoed briefly in his chest, and then she drew herself up and away from him. He did _not_ miss her warmth. “Sorry, Piotr.” She lifted both her hands and rubbed at her cheeks, each movement sharp and too harsh. “I guess we finally found my limit.”

“You should get some rest.” Drawing in a deep breath, he prepared to stand. But the slight tremble along her shoulders had him hesitating. “Lucy?”

“I can’t sleep,” she whispered, her head bowed and her curls hiding her expression, though the anguish in her voice told him enough. “Every time I close my eyes, Piotr, I see him. I hear that gunshot. I can’t—I can’t get it out of my head.”

_Of course._

“Have you talked to—”

“I don’t want to talk.” She shook her head, her hands fisted against her cheeks. “I don’t want to relive it anymore.”

He reached out, catching one of her wrists. “Lucy, you’re going to make yourself sick if you keep doing this. It isn’t healthy.”

“Says the guy who mourned his lover for six months and left me to pick through the wreckage of our fire team.” Piotr pulled away as though he had been burnt, watching through narrowed eyes as she froze and looked at him with growing regret. “I’m sorry, Piotr. I didn’t mean that. I mean, I _did_ , but I shouldn’t have said it.” She groaned and rubbed at her face again, her body rocking back and forth. “Void take me, I just want to not feel like this anymore.”

“The drinking isn’t going to help.” He gritted his teeth, prepared for her to lash out again. But she _had_ to have known he was not going to let her wallow. Not after _his_ six months. Where had all his wallowing gotten him? “And neither is secluding yourself here. You told me that plenty of times, if I recall.” After another moment of watching her, he reached out and closed his fingers around her wrist again. “Now let’s get you to bed.”

Lucy did not let him help her stand. “Will you stay with me?”

“You need to rest,” he reiterated, shaking his head for good measure.

A crooked smile caught at the edge of her mouth before she turned her face away. “I knew you wouldn’t.”

He bit back a sneer. “If you wanted someone to stay, you should’ve asked Martyr.”

“I didn’t want Martyr.”

And that should have been his first warning. She almost _always_ preferred the soft-spoken Exo over him. As she turned her head toward him again, her whiskey-hued gaze meeting his, he swallowed heavily. “Lucy.”

A series of sparks crackled to life over his skin, mirrored in her eyes as she leaned closer. That was his second warning. “Piotr, please. I don’t want to be alone.”

“Don’t.” He pulled at her grip, leaning back as she continued to lean toward him. “Lucy, this isn’t going to help.”

“Won’t it?” Her breath was warm and sweet with the taste of cherries; his stomach clenched at the thought. His third warning, and now he wished he _had_ pushed her away. “We’re both lonely.”

He turned his head as she closed the distance between them. A shiver went down his spine at the hot press of her lips against his cheek. “I’m not who you want to be with.”

“I know I’m not who you want either.” She tilted her head, her lips skimming over the mark beneath his eye. “But I’m _here_.”

Something went tight in his stomach and he tugged at her grip on his wrist again. _Void damn it_ , he should have known the liquor would not slow her reflexes. He quickly turned his face in the opposite direction as her kisses drew closer to the corner of his mouth. “Lucy, stop. You’re drunk and you aren’t thinking this through.”

She paused, pulling back far enough to meet his gaze again, her brow furrowed with consternation. “I _am_. I invited you here because I wanted to be with you. I want you to help me forget, even if it’s just for a little while.” Her gaze turned pleading. “Piotr, _please_. Please don’t make me beg.”

“Lu, we can barely stand each other. This is not going to make you feel better, it’ll only—” He stopped, his mouth tingling with the aftershock left from the brief press of her lips. Narrowing his eyes, he lifted his other hand to rest on her shoulder, furious with her and with himself. “You’re grieving,” he said with forced gentleness.

A muscle jumped in her cheek. “I don’t need you to pity me. I don’t even need you to like me. Right now I just want you to help me forget.” Something cold shuttered across her expression, and still, a low-level electric current passed between them from where she held his wrist. “Or is that fallen queen still stringing you along?”

They glared at one another, hands gripping, the rise of Void and Arc shuddering along their skin. Piotr sneered, prepared now to pull away, no matter if it hurt her—it would hurt her less in the long run. He could tell Hawthorne to come check on Lucy in the morning and Martyr would happily take over when he returned. They could talk with Ikora, see if they could give Lucy something to do, something to _hold_ onto. He would stand up now and leave, even if she hated him for it.

But he did not do any of those things.

Lucy rose from the floor and straddled his thighs, knocking over his glass and more empty bottles. As they rolled along the ground, she settled herself in his lap, pushing against his hand on her shoulder until his touch relaxed, shifted. He tilted his head back when she lifted his hand, setting his palm against her side even as she leaned near enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath.

“I shouldn’t have said that either,” she whispered, pinpricks of pale blue dancing in her eyes as she studied his face. “Sorry.”

He bared his teeth, hissing in agitation, and shifted beneath her weight. “Shut-up, Lucy. I’m not looking for—”

The heat of her mouth returned, the scent and taste of cherries filling his senses. A half-hearted snarl left him, muffled beneath the press of her lips, but he did not pull away. Lucy did not take his continued anger to heart, nor his lack of reciprocation, but slowly trusted her weight to him as she continued the kiss. She brushed her lips over his, minute sparks following the simple touch, and he shuddered when she repeated the gesture. The air around them was charged, shivering with both electricity and the chill of the Void. And though the sensation waned for a moment each time she pulled back, it sputtered and built every time she returned, until the charge of static had the hair rising up on the back of his neck.

His hands automatically tightened around her waist. The heat of her breath broke over his skin before she cautiously kissed him deeper, her tongue tracing the bow of his upper lip. She plied at him with little pecks, soft brushing motions of her lips over his, coming and going so many times that he grew all the more frustrated.

Piotr snapped at her, bruising her lower lip, and an immediate spark leapt across the space between their mouths. He drew in a startled breath, his gut going tight when Lucy chuckled.

_Fucking Arc user._ As she pulled back, he caught a glimpse of her eyes, pupils blown wide, the thin ring of her iris’ the same shade as her favorite drink. Her hands swept over the front of his shirt, mapping the beat of his heart, and she gave him that same shit-eating smirk she wore when they were on the field.

He wanted to wipe that smirk right off her lips.

Tightening his grip on her waist, he drew her closer and she came willingly. He met the next press of her lips and his own mouth was greedy, demanding. His fingers dug into the soft curves of her hips, holding her still even as her hands trailed upward, briefly framing his face before sliding into his hair. A sharp _mm_ filled his throat as she closed her fingers in the strands, tugging and tugging until he snarled at her again. With one last squeeze, he began to drag his hands upward, this time _beneath_ the worn material of her shirt. His fingers found a smattering of raised scars along one hip, the rippling whorl of a burnt bullet hole between two ribs, yet the rest of her was smooth and hot; despite her dislike for Solar energy, she was _burning_. He reached further, spurred by the alcohol and the taste of her on his tongue, until he pressed his palms to the space between her shoulder blades. And hesitated.

She was wearing nothing underneath, and despite the obvious reaction his body gave at finding out that delightful tidbit of information, a knot of unease settled in his chest. And it only grew as he heard a soft noise muffled against his mouth, the taste of salt suddenly on his lips. He brought his hands to her shoulders and urged her to lean back.

“Lucy,” he said as she tightened her grip in his hair and tried to kiss him again. “Lucy, _stop_.”

A shudder went through her and she sobbed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Piotr, I never should have—”

“It’s all right,” he lied, holding her upright as she began to crumple forward. He let her collapse against his chest, her shoulders already shaking with more sobs, and he shifted until he and certain parts of him were more comfortable beneath her weight. The sounds she made were the exact opposite from moment’s before, but he found that he preferred them, even though it meant her heart was breaking. At least this was _honest_. “It’s all right,” he whispered, his head falling back as he wrapped his arms around her and simply held her. “You’re going to be all right, Lucy.”


	8. Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by my friend, Martyr, at https://onewngdseraph.tumblr.com/post/639265558665248768/nothing-gold-can-stay

There was no way she could be comfortable.

Lucy was draped over his chest, one thigh tucked between his legs, both arms akimbo—one dangled off the bed—and she had her face tucked against his neck. Only the top inch or so of her head actually rested on the folded bit of fur he used for a pillow. Or at least called a pillow. He did not really need one, after all. But the fur felt funny against his body, especially when it tickled what bits of his wires were uncovered, and . . . .

Well, none of that had to do with why he was laying here, one hundred and seventy—“o _ne hundred and_ sixty-five, _thank you very much_ ”—pounds of dead weight and a very soused Guardian heavily asleep atop of him.

He glanced around his room, blinking slowly as he saw Cove and Jack watching from the little nook his ghost called her own. The smaller of the shells gave a mournful chirp and began to spin slowly, as though rousing himself. Martyr lifted one hand off the mattress and gave a minute shake of his head.

One hundred and however many pounds meant nothing. Not if it meant she was sleeping and not dreaming. Or drinking. Or worse.

Piotr had told him what had happened. Well, Cassandra had told him. Piotr has simply stood there, grunting at certain parts of the story and doing his best not to scowl too deeply. He had failed spectacularly.

And now Lucy was here. Where it was safe. Safe for them both, apparently.

Martyr wondered if he should feel offended. Slighted, even. After all, he loved Lucy just as much as Piotr did.

He hummed, sharp green light flickering from his joints as he did so. _More_ , he would hazard to say. Or at least he loved her _openly_. But it was not the same. Not for her and Piotr, the two of them at each other’s throats like alleycats. And not for Lucy and Cayde, the two dancing around one another, neither admitting anything, but the Nine take him, you _felt_ it.

 _Could_ feel it. Past tense. Now most of what he felt around Lucy was regret and grief and a fondness so deep it ached in his servos.

She shifted atop him, dangling hand now tucked between them, her fingertips sliding over his chest plate. Her curls tickled his cheek, much like the fur did, but the fur only smelled faintly of chemicals and animal musk. Lucy smelled like whiskey and rye and the fresh damp you could sometimes smell when it rained in Trostwold. A sound escaped her, something he hoped was contentment, and she tucked her face closer to his neck.

He bit back a laugh as the damp from her breath caused one of his wires to spark. With careful hands, he smoothed her hair back from her face and shifted his shoulder until she could rest more comfortably. Martyr closed his eyes, listening to the hum of the city outside his apartment, the quiet _plink-plink_ of rain as it fell against his window, and nearer still, the steady inhale and exhale as Lucy continued to sleep.

No, he decided as her fingers found purchase in the edge of his chest plate just beneath the wiring along his collar. He was not offended. If he could give her this, then that was enough. His loving her could be enough.


End file.
